I found a way of seeing. Or it found me.

The woods are full of promises:
long rays of sun, round pools of shadow,
deep towering greens, rustling and growing,
quick sparks of red and yellow —
even an Indigo Bunting
who fills a spot in front of me with pure blue! —
and is gone.

I ride a wave I’m halfway under,
an inward, outward flight —
a waking sleep, the opposite of death.
And this fine enchantment
grows more powerful
as everything, everywhere,
happens at once.

I hope to see in this way
until my eyes won’t focus
and letters won’t form on the page,
because this forest of words is a path I travel —
as common and uncommon as a blue hole in the sky —
a graceful dance,
half-dream, half-not.